c18 People in the Red Keep
As usual, neither the king nor the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard attended the Small Council meeting that day.
King Robert Baratheon had long since abandoned regular governance, preferring the pleasures of hunting, drinking, and feasting to the tedious burdens of ruling. The Lord Commander, Ser Barristan Selmy, was almost certainly accompanying the king at this moment, ensuring His Grace's protection through the streets and alleys of King's Landing, where trouble lurked around every corner.
Thus, the meeting was presided over, as always, by the Hand of the King, Jon Arryn an aging but dignified man, his white hair and beard neatly trimmed, his blue eyes still keen despite the toll of years.
"How proceed the preparations for the tournament in honor of the crown prince?" Jon Arryn asked gravely. The tournament was currently the most pressing matter in the Seven Kingdoms, and though the old Hand would have preferred to spend his time on graver affairs, he had no choice but to see it through.
As soon as the royal proclamation had gone out, knights from across Westeros had begun descending upon King's Landing, each bringing along their retinues. With them came hedge knights, sellswords, blacksmiths, merchants, thieves, and a flood of camp followers prostitutes, pickpockets, and swindlers alike. King's Landing, already bursting with people, now teetered on the edge of chaos. The City Watch, thinly stretched at the best of times, was hard-pressed to keep any semblance of order.
Since the influx began, there had been daily reports of street brawls, tavern riots, muggings, rapes, and murders. Blood ran like wine through the alleys of Flea Bottom.
All this, because the king desired a grand spectacle to celebrate Prince Joffrey's nameday a spectacle for which the Small Council must toil while His Grace hunted boars in the kingswood.
"The necessary funds have been secured," said Petyr Baelish, the Master of Coin, flashing his trademark sly smile. Littlefinger, short and slight, with a neatly trimmed beard and gray-green eyes always gleaming with amusement, added with a shrug, "The Lannisters of Casterly Rock and the Tyrells of Highgarden have been most generous. After the festivities conclude, there might even be a few coppers left in the royal treasury if the gods are kind."
At the far end of the council table, Grand Maester Pycelle roused himself with an effort, his heavy-lidded eyes blinking owlishly. He stroked his long white beard and wheezed in agreement. "Indeed... Lord Tywin and Lord Mace are most magnanimous benefactors," he said in his ponderous voice.
Littlefinger chuckled lightly. "Yes, though perhaps they might be even more generous if we asked them to reduce the interest rates on their loans."
Before more jests could be exchanged, the grim voice of Stannis Baratheon Master of Ships and Robert's second brother cut through the room like a sword. "Enough. Prime Minister." His face was set in a perpetual frown, his jaw clenched, the deep blue of his eyes cold and unyielding beneath his heavy brows. "I have detailed twenty men from the Royal Fleet to assist the City Watch. The docks are secure. There are no troubles at sea."
Renly Baratheon, the king's youngest brother, could not resist. Dressed in fashionable green doublet and golden antlers, his black hair combed neatly to his shoulders, Renly looked every inch the charming courtier. Resembling a younger, handsomer version of King Robert, Renly had learned early that winning favor was as valuable as winning battles. Smirking, he quipped, "If Lord Stannis ever commanded the City Watch, no doubt even the rats would march in perfect order."
Stannis scowled at his younger brother, the muscles of his jaw working. "You would do well to show respect, Renly," he said, his voice low with anger.
Renly gave a playful bow, his grin unrepentant. "Forgive me, my lord brother. My tongue runs ahead of my wits. I should not liken you to a butcher's son."
"Renly," Jon Arryn said sharply, bringing the banter to a halt. The old Hand fixed Renly with a stern gaze before continuing. "How fares your part of the preparations?"
Renly straightened and answered smoothly, "My lord Hand, the twenty men I assigned have joined the City Watch. However, we are forced to imprison more than a few troublemakers every day. King's Landing is... lively, to say the least."
The Hand gave a slow nod, turning his attention next to Varys, who sat draped in rich silk robes of lavender and cream, his powdered bald head gleaming under the torchlight. The Master of Whisperers had remained silent throughout the meeting, smiling blandly.
Seeing no objection, Jon Arryn concluded, "Good. Then preparations are in place. I expect you all to remain vigilant. I want no major incidents marring the prince's celebration."
The meeting ended soon after. The council members filed out one by one, each retreating to their various duties, leaving the Hand of the King alone to shoulder the governance of a realm abandoned by its monarch.
Jon Arryn rose wearily from his chair and made his way to the Iron Throne a jagged monstrosity of twisted swords, forged by dragonfire in Aegon's conquest. It was a longstanding tradition that disputes between lords and even matters of the smallfolk were adjudicated personally by the king from the Iron Throne. With Robert's increasing neglect, the burden fell to the Hand.
Robert mocked these affairs as "counting copper coins" and called the royal hearings "picking through the smallclothes of the realm."
Nevertheless, Jon Arryn endured it. He sat in the Iron Throne throughout the morning, hearing grievances, settling petty quarrels, and delivering royal judgments with firm fairness. By the time he returned to the Tower of the Hand, the sun was already sinking low, gilding the rooftops of King's Landing in molten gold.
"My lord, Lord Stannis waits within," said Shifu, the Hand's steward, as Jon Arryn approached the tower steps.
Jon Arryn paused, his old bones aching from the long session, but his mind immediately sharpened. Stannis was not a man to seek audiences lightly.
"Good," Jon Arryn said. "See that we are not disturbed."
The old Hand of the King climbed the winding stone steps of the Tower of the Hand. When he reached the heavy oaken doors of the small hall, he heard shouting from within.
His steward, Shufu, trailing behind him, moved quickly to open the door without waiting for an order.
Behind the thick door was a long, narrow hall with a high-vaulted ceiling of dark beams. At one end, gathered around the great dining table that could easily seat two hundred courtiers, a group of women were huddled together in distress.
At the center of the commotion sat the Hand's wife, Lady Lysa Tully, clutching their son, young Robert Arryn, to her chest, berating a trembling maid.
As Jon Arryn stepped into the hall, Lysa was shrieking, "I told you! I told you that sweet Robin must not be exposed to the midday sun! Over and over, I told you! His poor head, his tender skin and yet the moment I turn my back, you drag him outside into that awful heat! How dare you!"
"M'lady, I... I meant no harm," the girl stammered through her tears.
"Silence!" Lysa snapped.
"What's the matter here?" Jon Arryn demanded, his voice cutting through the cacophony.
The gathered women parted reluctantly. Lysa, as if only now noticing her husband, rose to her feet, cradling Robert against her breast. "They do not care for sweet Robin as they should!" she cried. "I was gone only a moment, and look at him!" She thrust the boy toward Jon, eyes blazing with fury.
Robert Arryn, the Hand's only son and heir, was six years old but frail for his age pale, sickly, and undersized, with wispy brown hair plastered to his sweaty forehead. He curled limply in his mother's arms, his small frame trembling slightly. To any outsider, he looked ill; but to those who knew him, it was clear he was simply exhausted from minor exertions.
Still, Jon Arryn knew there was more to his wife's outburst than just concern for their son. He sighed inwardly and asked, "Has someone sent for Maester Colemon?"
"Maester, maester," Lady Lysa said bitterly, her eyes brimming with tears. "If bleeding and potions could save my sweet boy, he would be strong and hearty by now!"
Robert Arryn, plagued by seizures and frailties, had long been subjected to bleeding, milk of the poppy, and every other remedy the maesters could devise, all to little avail.
Jon's heart ached as he asked quietly, "Then what would you have me do, Lysa?"
"You care nothing for him!" she wailed, her voice rising. "You only want to send him away to take him from me to those... those butchers who would harm him!"
"I care for him as much as you do," Jon said sternly, struggling to keep his temper. "No one is taking our son anywhere."
At that, Lysa subsided into choking sobs, tears streaming freely down her face.
"Fetch the lady back to her chambers," Jon ordered.
The maids hurried to attend their mistress, guiding Lady Lysa away with murmured reassurances. Only the scolded maid remained, standing frozen with terror.
"You, go find Grandmother Septa Mordane and see what other work she can set you to," Jon told her briskly.
The girl curtsied clumsily and fled the hall.
Having calmed the storm that Lady Lysa had whipped up, Jon Arryn finally made his way to the private solar where Stannis Baratheon awaited him.
No sooner had the Hand entered the room than the guards swung the doors closed with a heavy thud.
—
Meanwhile...
"Lysa, you must tell me exactly what you saw," Petyr Baelish said soothingly, taking great care with his words. "Only then can I help you protect sweet Robin."
Littlefinger had risked arranging a private meeting with Lady Lysa not to listen to her weep, but to glean vital information. As Master of Coin, he was keenly aware that Stannis Baratheon, the Master of Ships, had been making frequent and secretive visits to the Tower of the Hand. Recently, under the pretext of preparing for the crown prince's tournament, Jon Arryn had allowed Stannis and Renly to assign their own men to bolster the undermanned City Watch a perfectly legal act on the surface, but one that hinted at deeper machinations.
Littlefinger suspected that the Hand and Stannis were plotting something that could shift the balance of power — and where power shifted, profits could be made.
"I can't even get into the drawing room!" Lady Lysa hissed, furious. "They keep me out, as if I were a stranger! They know I would never agree to hand good Robin over to Stannis. Gods, the thought of it! To see my poor boy suffer under that cold, pitiless man... Never!"
"And Stannis has a daughter," Littlefinger murmured slyly, "young Shireen. Sweet enough, I hear, but... unfortunate to look upon."
Lady Lysa's face twisted with hatred. "A monster," she spat. "Pockmarked and ugly. No son of mine will ever be shackled to such a creature!"
"You believe the Hand plans to betroth Robert Arryn to Shireen Baratheon?" Littlefinger asked carefully.
"I know it!" Lysa cried. "That is their plan to marry my poor Robin to that... that creature! To tie my house to theirs! They think me blind, but I see it all. And when the marriage is made, they will strip my boy of his title as Warden of the East and hand it to Stannis!"
"Oh, sweet Lysa, sweetling," Littlefinger said, taking her hand gently. "Whatever happens, you have my loyalty."
Lysa, trembling with gratitude, nestled closer to him, whispering, "Thank you, my love. I knew you would always stand by me."
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